


November

by MiladyDeWinter (Techno_Queen)



Series: Secret Agents AU [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I guess this could be considered introspection?, Or at least stream of consciousness?, Secret agents AU, Stream of Consciousness, absolute garbage, but his friends are here to help him out, d'Artagnan has issues, oh my god this story is garbage, yeah let's go with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Techno_Queen/pseuds/MiladyDeWinter
Summary: D’Artagnan hates this time of year, when the oranges and yellows and reds of autumn slowly fade into the bleak grayness that lies somewhere between autumn and winter. It reminds him of the death of his father, the catalyst to him becoming Milady's pet assassin. Predictably, he doesn't do terribly well.Luckily, he has his friends to help him.(Or: d'Artagnan mopes. That's it. That's all this story is about.)





	November

**Author's Note:**

> "Can I clear my conscience,  
> If I'm different from the rest,  
> Do I have to run and hide? (Oh oh oh oh)  
> I never said that I want this,  
> This burden came to me,  
> And it's made it's home inside (Oh oh oh oh)
> 
> If I told you what I was,  
> Would you turn your back on me?  
> And if I seem dangerous,  
> Would you be scared?  
> I get the feeling just because,  
> Everything I touch isn't dark enough  
> If this problem lies in me
> 
> I'm only a man with a candle to guide me,  
> I'm taking a stand to escape what's inside me.  
> A monster, a monster,  
> I've turned into a monster,  
> A monster, a monster,  
> And it keeps getting stronger."--from "Monster" by Imagine Dragons

D’Artagnan hates this time of year.

It is mid-November, when the oranges and yellows and reds of autumn slowly fade into the bleak grayness that lies somewhere between autumn and winter, and he hates it. At any other time of the year, be it warm springs or stifling summers or cool autumns or freezing winters, he is composed, years of training in the art of killing making him dispassionate and poised and calm.

( _Too calm,_ Aramis always says, and Porthos does too. He’s heard their borderline ridiculous theories, about how he’s ‘suppressing his emotions’ and all sorts of other shit, and he would laugh if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s starting to believe they might be right, because it _can’t_ be normal to just feel _nothing_ all the time, can it? It can’t be normal to just feel a gaping hole where _d'Artagnan_ ought to be.)

At this time of the year, though...all that self-assuredness falls away, to be replaced by a sort of pathetic lethargy that is too dull for the sharp edge of grief and too harsh for mere boredom. At this time of the year, he forgets about his purpose, his meaning, his job. He even forgets about his three friends, about his beautiful fiancée currently hiding safely in Gascony. He forgets about everything that means anything to him, and this forgetfulness saps him of all energy, leaving him a starved husk.

(And isn’t that pathetic, to lie around staring at the ceiling when he should be working for the good of France and for the wellbeing of his friends? He should be out there, joking with his friends as he carries out his work. He should be an actual human being for once. He shouldn't be lazing around here when there were people needing his help, God, how fucking _weak_ could he possibly be--)

He finds it difficult to live in these times. Everything reminds him too much of past pains, bringing back terrible memories that he tried so hard to bury forever. At this time of year, he can’t close his eyes in peace without his mind conjuring ghastly images, taunting him with his past mistakes.

(His father, bleeding to death in his arms, bloodstained lips silently forming a word he can’t even begin to hope to make out; Constance, shivering in terror as the thrice-cursed Milady held a knife to her throat; the first man he killed, blood sprayed over the floor, his gray eyes glassy; the second man he killed, choking to death from the poison he imbibed, lips tinged blue; the third, fourth, fifth, twentieth person he murdered, until their faces and their voices blend into a mass of blood and screams and he can no longer tell them apart--)

Before long, his lethargy turns to sorrow, to fear, to self-hatred. He repeats these moments in his mind, over and over and over again until he feels like he will go mad with the pain of it all. He picks apart his past, analyzing how things could have been different, how he could have done better, how this whole mess could have been avoided. He tortures himself with ‘what-ifs’ until his surroundings become blurry with tears.

(If only he’d been stronger, smarter, braver...If only he’d made a certain decision differently...If only he’d _thought_ for once instead of doing things on impulse...If only, if only, if only… _[and over and over again he repeats those words in his mind until they form a sharp, staccato beat, like nails being beaten into his skull by hammers]_ )

~=~

It’s not long before he forgets to go to work. He spends half the day of lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, before he remembers that it is a weekday, and that he’s supposed to be at the Garrison.

Somehow, the thought doesn’t worry him as much as it should.

(Because how can he worry about lost salaries and disappointed coworkers and potentially being fired when his hands are coated to the elbows in innocent blood? How can he allow himself to think of such mundane, pointless, unimportant things when he’s made so many mistakes, killed so many people, ripped so many families apart?)

Still, he manages to pull himself together for a little while, functioning long enough to text some lame excuse to Tréville, his boss. It’s far from convincing, being the stereotypical “I’m sick” excuse, which would work except two months ago he showed up to work with a raging fever and had to be bullied by Aramis before he could be convinced to go on sick leave.

(And how strange it is, that a mere two months ago he couldn’t be kept away from his work if you chained him to a wall, but now even the mere thought of going to the Garrison makes his insides twist like a bundle of writhing snakes. It’s unusual and even a little concerning, and briefly he considers asking his friends, his brothers for help, but he can’t tear them away from their jobs just because he’s a pathetic shitshow of a human being. No, that would be selfish, and he can’t be selfish again, not after his selfishness killed so many people)

Contrary to what he expects, though, Tréville buys it, or at least accepts it. The man gives him a curt “get well soon” and requests no further details, asks no further questions.

D’Artagnan doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

~=~

It happens again, two weeks later. He’s tried so hard to go back to work, to function normally, but every day it grew harder and harder, until one day he simply can’t muster the energy to get off the cheap leather couch in the living room and drag his (miserable, pathetic, weak) ass to work.

(And dammit, he should be over this by now, his father died years ago, he’s already processed the grief. But no matter how many times he tells himself this, he knows deep down that it’s about more than his father. It’s about Milady and Constance and years after years of being forced to kill, of being conditioned into a human killing machine, of being broken and rebuilt over and over again until he no longer knows who he is anymore.)

~=~

It takes five days in a row of not showing up to work before Athos, Porthos, and Aramis knock at his door and demand why he’s disappeared, why he’s not at work, why he hasn’t been answering any of their texts and calls.

Then they take one look at his face, at the dark circles under his eyes and his unusually pale face and the pinkness in his eyes and his overall haggard state, and they go insane.

Porthos gently wraps him in some blankets that he’s procured from seemingly nowhere, and seats him in an armchair. Athos fusses and wrings his hands nervously while being generally useless. Aramis darts into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea, and for once in his life utterly neglects to make fun of d’Artagnan for the ridiculously large collection of teas he has stored in the cupboards.

It’s surprising and strange and not at all what d’Artagnan expected from his daft friends, but he finds he can’t complain. It feels nice to be worried over by his friends, and although he would have scorned anyone else’s pity, in this case he does not feel like he’s being patronized or mocked, the way he would if it were anyone else doing this for him. Instead, he feels...safe.

It’s a nice feeling. Unusual, but nice.

All nice things have a price, however, and it isn’t long before they settle down and stare at him expectantly as he drinks his tea (and he’ll have to remember to teach Aramis how to make proper tea someday, the man is decent at it but being merely ‘decent’ is practically sacrilegious when it comes to the fine art that is making tea). They don’t ask him for details, don’t press him to reveal why he disappeared from their lives for almost a week, but it’s clear from their half-concerned, half-stern gazes that they would appreciate an explanation.

He owes it to them. 

So he drinks his tea and considers his words, and it isn’t long before the tale slips from his lips. A tale of murder and love and pain and scars, all starting on a dreary, rainy, cold day in the middle of November, not quite autumn and not quite winter, when a man shot d’Artagnan’s father and left him to bleed to death in the slush of mud and rain.

They are quiet as he talks, and are silent as he explains that he struggles, sometimes, when it’s November. When it’s dreary and rainy and cold, and the streets are filled with a slush of mud and rain. When all he can think about are the long line of mistakes he’s made, starting at the death of his father and ending with his attempt at murdering Athos, nine months ago.

They still are silent when he stops talking, and he fiddles nervously with the handle of his (now-empty) mug as he avoids meeting their gazes. When they still fail to say a word, he finds himself making some self-disparaging quip about being pathetic, a thin, fake smile twisting his mouth into a shape that feels wrong to him.

That’s when Porthos punches him. Not very hard, and it’s a blow to the shoulder so it doesn’t hurt terribly much, but still, he is surprised. He simply stares at Porthos for a moment, mouth slightly open, because really, how do you react to one of your best friends punching you?

When he finally finds his voice again and is able to ask for an explanation, Porthos is all too quick to provide one. He looks angry, like someone kicked a puppy in front of him, and this does not change as he firmly tells d’Artagnan that no, he is not pathetic, and yes, if he says something like that ever again, Porthos will not hesitate to punch him. Again.

He protests, of course, because he wouldn’t be d’Artagnan if he didn’t try to contradict absolutely everything. This time, it is Athos who speaks, a melancholy look in his eyes as he speaks of lost hopes and shattered dreams. He tells d’Artagnan that he mustn't isolate himself, that he must continue to live and live and live and not resort to hiding himself away (and d’Artagnan wonders where the faraway, haunted sorrow in the man’s green-blue eyes came from all of a sudden, but it’s not his place to ask, so he doesn’t). He says that d’Artagnan has friends to aid him and that he doesn’t need to struggle alone.

And Aramis, tactile, talkative Aramis, for once appears to be at a bit of a loss for words. He fusses with the blankets, makes d’Artagnan some more tea, places a hand on his arm in a gesture of sympathy and support, but says little. All he does is gently squeeze the ex-assassin’s arm whenever he says something particularly self-deprecating, and stays silent, leaving Porthos and Athos to do the talking.

By the time the afternoon turns to evening, the evening to night, d’Artagnan feels a little bit better.

~=~

The next day, he goes to work (and by some miracle of god, he hasn’t been fired).

The day after that is the same. And the day after that, and the day after _that,_ until finally the bleakness of mid-November passes by and he can breathe again, act like himself again.

(And of course he fears the next November, he always does, but somehow the fear is not so acute, so sharp as before.)

(It’s a small change, but it’s a start.)

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaa I have no idea whether I hate this or not and it's confuuuusing aaaaaaaa
> 
> Anyway...I've never been in Paris in November before, so any depictions of the weather may be inaccurate. If it is, we'll just call it 'artistic liberty' instead of 'clueless author,' m'kay?
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome.


End file.
